


Low on Air

by Allison_xinyu



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Not A Fix-It, Post-Episode: s05e13 Return 0, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:22:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27120368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allison_xinyu/pseuds/Allison_xinyu
Summary: He knows there’s nothing in the world that can make his breathing a little easier. Nor does he have any will to ease the ache and fatigue deep in his bones.All he knows and does now is to keep breathing, no matter how hard it is. To keep living, no matter how hopeless that is.He has no right to put a stop to his breathing.
Relationships: Harold Finch/John Reese
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19





	Low on Air

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Person of Interest. If I did, I wouldn't be here writing fanfics, would I? Though I do wish I own John Reese.
> 
> Author's notes: This has not been beta'd, and English is not my first language. So expect lots of mistakes. Sorry.  
> As much as I want John Reese to make it off that rooftop, I somehow feel like this is the best ending for him. He has always prepared for this moment. I can't imagine what will happen if it turns out to be the other way around. If Finch sacrificed himself to bring down Samaritan, I don't think Reese would be able to live with himself. So this is not really a fix-it.   
> Please enjoy! Reviews will be much appreciated.

Harold Finch never would’ve known a world without Samaritan would be a world without John Reese.

And somehow he’s still drawing breaths in this post apocalyptic world. 

He finally didn’t need to run anymore. No more mesh networks. No more shadow maps. Just him with his yet another bird name.

Stopped abruptly in the middle of a bustling New York street, brushed by hasty passengers on both sides, some of whom shot him irritated looks, Harold had a bizarre realization that everyone is a particle in the vast expanse of this indifferent universe. Waiting to collide into one another, to combust sooner or later, or to be crushed by the inevitable impact.

Is himself a particle too? Not that he cares about it. 

“In the end everyone dies alone. No one’s coming to save you.” He suddenly heard John’s croak in the cacophony of traffic noises

Yes, yes I know that now. Harold blurted out, tapping the earpiece that was no longer there. Though my story played out a little differently, thanks to you.

His abdominal wound healed gradually and nicely. Though it still gave him occasional jolts of pain, he was expected to make a full recovery. He ruefully hoped the pain in his stomach could stay a bit longer. It was the reminder of a war hard won and his personal great loss. 

Anyway, everything is on the mend. The machine has come back online and it’s a new one. She recruited her own assets and they were handling the irrelevant numbers just fine. His bank accounts have been unfrozen. Whether to keep playing professor Whistler or to assume his former roles was entirely his choice. And he was almost healthy, no more do-or-die missions, no more sleep deprivation. 

No one knows it was getting harder and harder for him to breathe. 

More often than not, he had to make a sudden stop, like he was doing now. He felt like the wind was knocked out of him. His chest ached so horribly as if that rain of bullets were slamming into his chest instead of John’s.

He rarely slept through the night. He was almost terrified of sleep now. Because in some of his dreams, he would be back on that wrong rooftop, holding an empty briefcase and listening to John thank him one last time before he embarked on the suicide mission. John’s soft lilt of voice, oozing compassion and gratitude, soothed him, but made the inevitable consequence a harder pill for him to swallow. 

How did we come to this?

I did everything to prevent this, to prevent another friend to trade his life for mine. 

He couldn’t let his friend down. So he turned around and got off the building. But he also couldn’t want his friend to die alone. This was not how their partnership was supposed to end. He couldn’t care less about the searing pain in his stomach. The blood has long soaked his vest and now dripping onto the ground. So be it. He had to get to John. He knew the police must have been evacuating the building. Streams of people rushed toward him with panic on their faces. Some almost knocked him down. He couldn’t afford to be knocked down now. Going against the flow, he limped as fast as he could. But still not fast enough. He had to resort to less subtle methods, pushing and shoving people out of his way. No one dared do anything more than look annoyed. He could also see a tinge of confusion in their eyes. They simply had no idea what possessed him that made him charge right into a building just hit by a missile. There was only one thing repeating itself in his uncharacteristically blank mind – No! This is not how it supposed to be! John is not supposed to end like this. His end should be intertwined with mine. I should end whenever and wherever he ends.

How he wished he could indeed break the time continuum, like he once joked to John back in the library when their partnership just began. He was so close to that building, the only building that mattered. But his leg gave out. His vision started to blur. He heard the people around him screaming and there was only darkness. He woke up in hospital. Doctor at his bedside told him he got lucky. He had lost a lot of blood but got to the hospital just in time. He didn’t know how to process this information. He made it, which meant it was a lifetime too late for John. He thought he must have looked desperate and despondent. The doctor looked at him, perplexed, not being able to figure out why someone who just had a close call would seem like he just received the worst possible diagnosis. 

In his other dreams, he seemed to be underwater. But unlike the benign lie he told detective carter about how he learned to swim, he couldn’t float upward this time. No matter how hard he flailed his limbs, he just took in more water through his nostrils and mouth. Before long, he felted his throat constricted, and the freezing water started to enter his lungs. Panic kicked in. His body warped in an awkward position. His oxygen-hungry lungs were about to explode in his chest. All he could hear was the thumping of his own heart. He was soon exhausted. Now he started to welcome the encompassing darkness beckoning at him. 

“I won’t be around forever. Just wanted to know you can protect yourself once I’m gone.”

He once again heard john’s raspy but tender tone. He knew it would be against his friend’s will if he let go now. But he couldn’t muster any strength to struggle. He’s been struggling for so long. His whole life has been a long and painful struggle. What good that’s gotten him? 

He jerked awake, sweating and shaking in his own bed. He took in a few shaky breaths to quell the panic. But he knew it would be in vain. No matter what he did, he couldn’t change the fact that he was constantly low on air. 

He knows there’s nothing in the world that can make his breathing a little easier. Nor does he have any will to ease the ache and fatigue deep in his bones.

All he knows and does now is to keep breathing, no matter how hard it is. To keep living, no matter how hopeless that is.

He has no right to put a stop to his breathing. John has robbed him of this right when he appeared on the right rooftop.

For some time, he hated him for that.

How dared him make the decision for him?

How could he be sure that Harold wanted to live like this?

But that was some irrationality when he was low on pain killers. 

He gave up his life so that you could live.

How can you ever honor that?

By living, by keep breathing.

So there he is.

Harold Finch built a machine. He never knew he would become one.

His only hope now is that his last breath could come a little sooner.


End file.
